


Diem Mortis

by sixth_senses



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 8th year, Cursed, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hogwarts, Lust, Potions Tutoring, Sex, Slow Burn, dramione - Freeform, toxic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:49:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sixth_senses/pseuds/sixth_senses
Summary: The last thing Lord Voldemort did before his death was look towards Hermione and mutter something beneath his breath, his wand pointed in her direction.Though, nothing happened. Nothing at all—A botched spell, or so she and everybody else believed.Yet, on her 19th birthday, she woke up and saw a sea of red, crimson above every head, reading "car crash, botched curse, dragon-pox, old age..."The only person who didn't have their cause of death floating above his head was Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 26
Kudos: 97





	1. Disclaimer.

** Diem Mortis; **

**The last thing Lord Voldemort did before his death was look towards Hermione and mutter something beneath his breath, his wand pointed in her direction.**  
**Though, nothing happened. Nothing at all** **—** **A botched spell, or so she and everybody else believed.**  
**Yet, on her nineteenth birthday, she woke up and saw a sea of red, crimson above every head, reading "car crash, botched curse, suicide, dragon-pox, old age..."**

**The only person who didn't have their cause of death floating above his head was Draco Malfoy.**

**—**

_Welcome to my new story, Diem Mortis._  
_trigger warnings for this book:_  
_\- death_  
_\- anxiety_  
_\- toxic relationships_

_There is nothing too heavy in this book._

I am super excited about this book.  
It is also available to read on my Wattpad, which is sixth_senses.

Please enjoy.


	2. Prologue.

* * *

** 2 May 1998 **

_There was something about the way Voldemort’s eyes kept lingering over Hermione’s shaking body that made her feel brazen._

_He was dying. It was clear for anyone to see. Including her._

_His body was dissolving, slowly but surely turning into nothing but dust. He was disintegrating beneath the pool of morning sunlight that was slipping through the cracked stained glass windows, shadowing him in what could have been a beauty._

_But it was nothing but the beauty of death. It’s what he had deserved–A slow, taunting death._

_But as he slowly perished, he wasn’t looking at his killer; Harry Potter. He was looking at_ her, _his red eyes gleaming with last specs of evil that ran through them, coating her in trepidation and unease._

_Harry was mumbling something at him in the middle of the Great Hall within all the rubble. Voldemort sneered at Harry’s words without much attention. Without much care. He knew his time was up. He knew that he was about to die, that he had lost the war he was so desperate to win._

_“Listen to me!” Harry yelled, body shaking with so much anger Hermione flinched. But she couldn’t look at Harry, she could only look at Voldemort as his eyes raked her body, over and over and over again._

_Ron’s hand trembled in her own, and then his fingers fell free of her clutch, leaving her empty, somewhat barren. Her bare hand dropped to her side, shaking with fear._

_“You are a monster!” Harry screamed, his voice echoed through the Great Hall like a mantra, so loud Hermione almost threw her hands over her ears. “You have lost, Voldemort! We will know you as nothing more than a half-blood hypocrite!”_

_Hermione shuddered at the way Voldemort fell so his knees with a cackle._

_It was silent. Deathly silent. Nothing could be heard other than the slow trickle of Voldemort’s gagged laughter echoing around the great hall over and over and over again._

_“And—and I will make it—“ Voldemort spluttered out, his voice cracking. He was still holding the elder wand that was splintered in several places. “—Make it my last—dying action—“_

_The wand rose into the air, shaking. His fingers were slowly disintegrating, peeling back and revealing nothing but bone beneath them._

_“To—to make sure I ruin the life—“ The elder wand continued to rise into the air, sitting within a ray of light that was flooding the room in broken fragments, and landed in the direction of Hermione. Lingering there. She froze, nobody but here seemed to notice the wand was in the direct line of her heart. “—Of a Mudblood.”_

_She had no time to run. She had no time to hide. She couldn't do anything. A shot of woozy red smoke issued from his wand. Everyone yelled and ducked._

_She couldn't do **anything**. _

_She couldn't do a thing but scream as the spell hit her, splashing her body in what felt like cold water._

_But nothing happened._

_Nothing at all._

_Nothing but emptiness. Coldness. It had a slight sense of...anticlimax._

_And then The Dark Lord died, turning into nothing but ash._

_Hermione felt herself being pulled away from the great hall by her arm. She couldn’t see or hear anything, her mind was fogged, damned and pounding._

_She didn’t know who was pulling her or where she was going. All she could see was the outline of cheering bodies, black robes floating at peoples feet. All she could feel was the crunch of decapitated fingers and toes beneath her feet as she was led into the courtyard, where people began to celebrate._

_Maybe it was the shock that they had really won. Maybe it was the shock from the attempted curse that had just been thrown her way and discarded by the people around her, but her ears rang with the loud sound of shrill, coating every inch of her body in goosebumps._

_And then she fell to the ground, her head hitting a stone step before it rolled to the side._

_She was exhausted. She was in pain. She was in a state of so much shock that she could not move her fingers or toes or even hiss at the thud that echoed inside her skull at the pressure of her head hitting the stone._

_She tried to squint to see who was kneeling at her side. It seemed to be Ginny, maybe Ron, all she could work out was freckles and blue eyes, a few tuffs of ginger hair._

_But she didn’t keep her eyes on whoever was shaking her. Her vision trailed over their shoulder, out onto the bridge where she could make out three figures, all with icy white hair._

_Then one turned back, his face catching the pale light of the setting sun, eyes full of sadness and fear and what Hermione knew was...guilt?_

_For a moment she was sure that even through the distance between them, he looked her way. His blue eyes glimmering with something that shredded her in malady._

_But then he disappeared, his body spinning until there was nothing in his wake but a small puff of black smoke._

_Then everything went dark._

_It was the last thing she saw before she woke up four days later, tucked beneath a sheet in a stale bed inside of St Mungos, beside hundreds of bleeding bodies._

_It was the last thing she saw before she woke up and realised that everything would change._

_The world was different now._

_And she wasn’t sure if that was a good thing._


	3. One.

There was something about the aftershocks of the war that didn’t sit right with Hermione.

Like right then, as she walked the halls of Hogwarts with her books tucked against her chest it felt like nothing had happened. Like everything was as it once was.

Not an inch of stone was out of place. There was not one crack on the stained glass windows. No blood on the grass and no stray fingers or toes.

Perfect. Clean. Usual.

Students continued to walk the halls while laughing and joking around with one another. Students who weren’t there to see everything be destroyed just months ago. Students that didn’t have to watch their friends die before their very own eyes or attend the funerals of every member of the fallen, desperately trying not to crumble themselves.

And it was moments like right then, as she turned a corner on the fourth floor, that she was reminded of everything that _had_ happened. There was the small alcove in which she knew Fred Weasley had lost his life, the ghost of his blood on the walls still echoing in her vision.

Then there was the stairway that was the demise of Tonks. The image of her falling after being struck with a curse by her own auntie replayed in Hermione’s mind every single time she placed her hand on the bannister.

Everywhere she walked reminded her of death. It was like she was still running through the halls, jumping over dead bodies to try and flee for safety, but really, she was just walking to a class like Voldemort had never decided to create havoc. 

Hermione took a deep breath before pushing open the door to the Potions classroom, shuffling to her usual seat at the back and placed her book onto the wooden table.

She was late. Everybody had already taken their stools, filed around the tables as if it was just another usual day at the office, their eyes all trained to the professor at the front of the class.

Even in lessons, Hermione was reminded of the before. Because it wasn’t Snape standing in front of the grand chalkboard, eyes scanning her like she was bile beneath his shoe, it was somebody else, because Snape was dead. And Goyle wasn’t sitting behind her throwing balls of ever-lasting chewing gum into her hair, because he was also dead.

And there was no Lavender begging the Professor for more classes brewing love potions, giggling with her hands against her chest, because she was dead too.

“Miss Granger?” Professor Slughorn’s voice ringed through her senses. It took her a moment to realise she wasn’t imagining it. “Could _you_ tell me the main ingredient?”

It was silent, everybody had spun on their stools to look at her, eyes gleaming with positive judgement and anticipation.

Hermione cleared her throat and cast her vision down at the table, reading the engravings marked in the wood to avoid looking into somebody's eyes she didn’t want to look into. Such as Padma, who was probably looking at her with desperation, silently begging for Hermione to sit with her, which she always denied, or Pansy Parkinson, who would no doubt be sneering at her from her corner by the vial cupboard.

“Which potion, sir, sorry?” Hermione’s voice was rather small, getting caught in the sound of the rainfall against the windows.

“Tolipan Blemish Blitzer, my dear.” Slughorn seemed slightly apprehensive to have to repeat himself. Especially to someone who was, who _had_ been, his top student, before Harry had found Snape’s book. “Acne clearing potion, as it’s better known as.”

“I—Oh—“ Why was she panicking? Why was her forehead feeling awfully hot? Her cheeks flushed pink as she stuttered and felt herself start to tremble.

She knew this elixir like the back of her hand. This was a potion she had taught herself to brew after Ginny’s explosive acne breakout during Christmas of 1997 at the burrow. And it was rather simple with only a few ingredients. So why were her hands shaking as she struggled to think of the correct answer?

“Dragon Bone, sir, crushed and stirred in an anti-clockwise direction.” She said with a nod of her head, still continuing to read the words carved into the table.

Slughorn let out a small, lightheaded chuckle that made her wince. It was the chuckle he let out every time somebody had got an answer wrong.

“So close my dear! So _close_!” He threw his hands up in the air and turned towards the chalkboard, raising his wand to start marking it. “The correct answer would be dr—“

“The main ingredient is actually Dragon _Claw.”_ Somebody finished the sentence for him. “Not Dragon _Bone_. Dragon Bone is too pliable for this type of potion, it would override the valerian sprigs and make it too dry, which would only infect the area of contamination even more.”

Hermione felt her cheeks go red in embarrassment. She knew the voice all too well, slightly cocky, yet slightly apprehensive of showing any form of intelligence. She found herself digging her nails into the wood to stop herself from looking aside at him.

“Very good Mr Malfoy!” Slughorn said, and Hermione knew he was nodding his head in his usual extravagant manner. “Fifteen points to Slytherin!”

Hermione felt the urge to huff but kept her mouth closed and instead focused on drawing over the dented table, in which there was a drawing of a golden snitch, ragged and cut into the wood. Harry, that would have definitely been carved by Harry; cutting away at the table and not paying any attention to Slughorn because he knew that Snape’s book would teach him all he needed to know anyway.

Hermione sighed and looked to the empty seat beside her. She felt lonely. Normally, she’d wish to have some sort of solitude in class. Trying to drown out the sound of Ron and Harry's bickering often became distracting and tiresome, but right now Hermione wished for nothing more than to hear Harry mumbling about Ron’s snoring or complaining about the snide looks Malfoy was shooting his way.

But Harry was not here, he was off training for something that was way more important than spending his time at Hogwarts, sitting inside of a dusty classroom.

He was off being a hero. Hermione was left to be nothing but a student. It felt somewhat disappointing, but also fitting.

Harry was the hero in the war. She never was.

“Right, well, time to brew the potion!” Slughorn said, clapping his hands once again. “You should all know where to find the ingredients and how to light your cauldrons as eighth years I’m sure... I’m sure.”

Everyone got to their feet, rushing around into cupboards, pulling out the dragon claw and bottles. Hermione continued to reside in her seat, waiting patiently for everyone to be finished collecting their ingredients so she could avoid their continuous questioning and snide remarks.

Hermione seemed to not be the only one doing so, she looked up for a brief second and saw that Draco was still sitting at his lonely desk on the other side of the room by the window. He was looking down at his hands too, the back of his head engulfed by the shadow of the rain which flickered against his white hair, making him look like a cruel, hollow young ghost.

It made it easier to imagine him as a ghost who died painfully, too, rather than having to imagine him as a reformed student who was so ‘eager‘ to continue his studies alongside her.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him angrily for one moment before he glanced her way, eyes landing on her face like he knew exactly where she’d be looking. She rushed to her feet, stumbling towards the wooden cupboard behind her like a child on ice and threw open the door without care. She felt a splinter enter her skin.

“Hi, Hermione!” Padma grabbed her arm. Hermione had to grit her teeth to avoid pulling it free from her grip. “Do you want to sit with me and Lavan—I mean me and Katie? You always sit at the back by yourself now, but I think you should—“

Hermione squeezed her eyes together and cleared her throat. “I’m fine at the back, it helps me focus.”

“But why don’t you ever sit with us anymore?” Padma pressed, still keeping Hermione's arm in a deathly tight hold. “You can’t linger alone at the back just because Ron—“

“Excuse me.” A voice cut her off this time and it didn’t belong to Hermione, it belonged to Draco, who was leaning against the side of the cupboard and glaring down at Padma with dark eyes. “I need to get my ingredients, so if you’d like to stop gossiping I’d really appreciate it.”

Padma’s eyes widened and she scrambled away, eyes wide like she was half-scared and half-embarrassed by his scrutinising gaze.

Hermione hated that everyone was afraid of Draco. She felt as if she was the only one who wasn’t afraid of him, not since the end of the battle, anyway. The only thing she feared was his eyes, which were always so cold and algrific. His eyes had begun to remind her of the cold relish of death—made to seem so peaceful and welcoming, but below the surface was nothing more than emptiness. Nothingness. As lonely as a grave.

It took everything in her to not spin on her heels and curse at him, to blame him, to pound on his chest with her fists. But half of her was too exhausted to even do such a thing so instead, she ignored him, keeping her eyes trained to her hands to avoid looking anywhere near his irises.

He said nothing to Hermione as she struggled to find the ledge in the cupboard that contained the ingredients. Instead, he looked out of the window, pretending to enjoy the rain, not once daring to look at her as her fingers twitched around the bottle of dragon claw she had finally found.

He sucked his teeth impatiently and pulled a hand to his chest to examine his nails in a rude, timber manner. Hermione ignored him as she slammed the cupboard shut and started towards her desk.

“You have to stir in a _clockwise_ direction, by the way,” Draco said under his breath as she passed him. She paused, one foot in the air. “ _Not_ anti-clockwise, like you claimed.”

She knew that. She had always known that. She remembered very clearly arguing with Ginny about the direction of her ladle in the comfort of the Burrow’s kitchen. She could almost still smell the cinnamon from the buns beside her cauldron. How could she have forgotten which direction to stir?

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and kept walking, finding it rather annoying that Draco was seemingly better at potions than he had ever let on during the previous years.

She returned to her desk, lighting up her cauldron with a loud hiss of flame that resembled the sound of a hungry serpent and began to brew.

She couldn’t focus. Not once but twice did she accidentally slice the dragon claw rather than crushing it, and had to discard the contents of her cauldron and start over. Three times Professor Slughorn walked by her desk and looked at her with a disappointed expression on his features, and only once stopped to actually _talk_ to her.

“Miss Granger Miss Granger!” He mumbled as he stared down at her potion which was a dark grey, and should have been a pearly azure. “Have you heard anything from Harry since you’ve returned? He’s not been responding to my owls...Offered him for dinner three times since term began!”

Hermione sighed and dropped her ladle onto the table, which gave a deafening crack that made every head turn towards her.

“I’m sure he’s rather busy with his training, professor.” Hermione didn’t realise her teeth were gritted together until she felt pain in her jaw.

“Very well…” Slughorn said disappointedly. “Miss Granger, if you _do_ happen to speak to him anytime soon, please inform him of the dinner party I am holding in a week's time. Lots of important people are coming, it would be great to have Harry in my repertoire...yes...of course you are more than welcome as well!”

He paused and shot her a smile that made her insides feel as if they were rotting.

“I’m sure my guests would be more than excited to see the famous golden girl!” She looked down at her cauldron. She hated that nickname. There was nothing golden about her. She had just helped end a war. “Oh, and Mr Malfoy!”

Slughorn spoke over his shoulder and Hermione looked up just in time to see Draco wandlessly spinning his ladle as he peered up over his potions textbook.

“You are of course more than welcome...yes...the famous son of the woman who helped save The boy who lived!” Slughorn pottered over to Draco’s desk and peered into his cauldron. Hermione knew it was brewed to perfection from the reflection of azure rolling inside of Slughorn’s eyes. “Wow! You keep getting better...fifteen more points to Slytherin...I will owl you the date of the dinner party!”

Slughorn stalked away, belly first. Hermione saw Draco roll his eyes at the teacher's enthusiasm for his mother's newfound fame and looked back to his book, scanning the pages with his eyes moving so fast they began to blur.

Hermione didn’t realise she was staring, watching his finger etch over the words in his textbook until she smelt the aroma of burnt dragon claw etching through her nostrils. She gasped and scrambled to turn the flame to low, but it was too late, it had burnt.

Hermione passed Slughorn a vial of black smudge before leaving the class, squeezing her eyes shut in shame when Slughorn tutted at her failure.

—

Ancient Runes had always been Hermione’s top class. It was what she excelled in, what she loved. Before the final battle, Hermione would often find herself studying runes for _fun_ , much to Ron and Harry’s dismay.

There was a sliver of her heart that told her she had every right to not _love_ the subject anymore. But deep down, she felt guilty. She felt guilty that for the past hour in class, she had done nothing but stare out of the window to watch the storm brew hundreds of tiny tornadoes. Every time she even attempted to listen to what Professor Griffiths was even saying, she felt the urge to cry.

Because the Professor who had taught her everything she knew about runes had left, running away from the danger of the school the moment war had been declared.

Attempting to push it to the back of her mind, Hermione continued down the corridor, eyes cast to the floor.

She watched her feet as they moved through the crowd, like two beetles scrambling for a private leaf to sit on, desperate to avoid becoming prey. Hermione was desperate to avoid becoming prey too. She could hear the whispers and see the fingers pointing towards her as she walked, head down. It was always the same old words, Golden Girl, Potter’s Mudblood, the war hero.

Unsure whether she was just feeling a little overwhelmed over the fact she was walking the exact path she had walked running away from Nagini, Hermione felt a thudding headache sitting in the back of her skull.

“Miss Granger?” Hermione’s head shot up at the familiar voice and she was met with the image of Professor McGonagall weaving her way through the crowd, mumbling when students tripped on the back of her emerald robes. “Are you busy?”

McGonagall met her within the crowd of people descending towards their next lessons.

Her presence was warm. Familiar. It made Hermione’s anxious heart thud into something more passive and calm.

“I’m just about to head to Herbology, Professor,” Hermione said, grimacing ever so slightly at the thought of standing in the cold, damp greenhouse outside, “Is something wrong?”

“No no, nothing is _wrong_ ,” Mcgonagall gushed, but then pursed her lips together. “Well, I need to speak with you in my office, I’ll send an owl to Sprout explaining your absence…”

Hermione was tempted to protest, knowing that missing out on class content would do nothing but send her into a stressed cycle of panic due to overloaded catch-up work, but she could see something twinging inside of her headmistress’ eye, and hesitantly followed her to her office.

It had been over a year since Dumbledore passed away, but something about coming into his old office still filled Hermione’s veins with dread.

It wasn’t his office anymore, it was Mcgonagall’s and had been since Snape had passed. But, it _was_ still Dumbledore’s office if you happened to look close enough.

There was still a small trinket of sherbet lemons, untouched, on the desk beside the headmistress’ placard and there was still the perch in which Fawkes used to reside. Not to mention that there was still all of Dumbledore’s favourite books lining the bookcases around her, but the only difference now was that Hermione no longer had the desire to reach out and study them top to bottom.

“Do sit, Hermione, help yourself to a sherbet lemon if you wish,” Mcgonagall waved her hand, and Hermione sat, but she didn’t dare touch the sweets. She didn’t want to taint the memory of the headmaster.

“Is everyone okay?” Hermione asked, frowning as McGonagall pulled out a ledger of files and placed them on the table. “Harry didn’t get injured training or anything, did he?”

“Harry is more than fine, probably crying himself to sleep at night from the amount of work he has to do, but other than that, he is well.” McGonagall laughed, waving her hand as she drew her ornate chair. She slid her glasses up the ridge of her small nose and sighed. “Are you doing okay, Hermione?”

Hermione froze. She was not expecting this question at all.

Her eyes widened and without realising it she spluttered shaking her head. Was she okay? She wasn’t quite sure how to answer the question.

She wasn’t okay. Not really.

Her headache worsened and she had to grit her teeth to not massage her temples.

“I’m—I’m fine, Professor.” Hermione gulped, trying to avoid the eyes peering into her, searching her soul.

“Hmm.” The teacher hummed and opened up the files in front of her, “You used to be the top student in the entire school, did you know that?”

Hermione frowned. Used to be. Used.

“But something about the way your grades are slipping is telling me that something isn’t quite right, my dear.” She flicked a page. “Sprout says that both your Venomous Tentacula's died as you forgot which fertiliser to use andSlughorn reports you haven’t produced more than one successful potion since the start of term, and you’ve had over twelve lessons so far…”

For a moment Hermione felt struck with embarrassment. This had always been Hermione’s biggest fear; sitting before a Professor and being told how awful she was at the subjects she was being taught. And that’s exactly what was happening, even if McGonagall wasn’t outwardly saying so.

She didn’t have to say so. The glimmer in her eye was enough to tell Hermione that Mcgonagall was disappointed with her performance. Hermione was disappointed in her own performance, her own grades, her own failure. But part of her just didn’t care anymore. Maybe the war had ruined that side of her soul.

“I can’t help but feel that several subjects is too much for you to handle, following the war.” McGonagall flipped another page, the sound of the parchment sent a haunting shiver down Hermione’s spine. “I understand that your brain is tired, that you're physically and mentally shaken with stress following the horrors that you have seen. I am as well. A few students have decided to drop their schedules to just four essential classes—“

“—No!” Hermione interrupted without even thinking about it and felt her cheeks flush with crimson. “Sorry—But I couldn’t possibly drop to only _four_ subjects…”

“And why couldn’t you?” McGonagall crossed her fingers on-top the files that were threatening to set Hermione’s heart on edge. “That way you could focus intently on making sure _those_ four subjects are absolutely up to scratch, more time to study and whatnot.”

“You gave me a time-turner—“

“I cannot give you a time-turner again, Hermione, you and your friends destroyed them all at the ministry. Besides, you're already falling behind, I think a time turner would only complicate things more.”

Hermione pursed her lips together and felt her fingernails sliding into her palms to control her breathing. What annoyed Hermione most was that Mcgonagall was right, she _was_ falling behind. That’s what made her heart clench.

“I wasn’t going to ask for a time-turner again, Professor, I was going to say that you once thought me capable of being able to handle more than _nine_ classes, what makes you think I can’t handle seven?” Hermione tried to not sound too angry, but her voice was brazen. “I will focus harder, I’ve just been a little distracted.”

“You _can_ handle seven, you are Hermione Granger.” McGonagall let out a small laugh, but it did not ease Hermione’s trepidation. “But, you can not handle seven as successfully as you used to. I think choosing four of the key subjects to dedicate _all_ your time to will be most fitting, subjects that will relate to all career paths.”

Hermione clicked her tongue. “This is non-negotiable, isn't it?”

“Unfortunately, it is.” McGonagall sighed. “Many students are in the same place right now. It’s very hard returning to classrooms and sitting in seats deceased classmates previously sat in. It would be unfair of me to expect outstanding grades from everybody.”

McGonagall paused and looked slightly sad.

“I thought that if anyone could—well, I hoped that _you_ would still be outstanding, Hermione, but when I think about it, you’ve had it hardest out of anyone who has returned to the school.” She closed the files after inspecting them once more.

“Sometimes when I focus too closely on the parchment I am writing on I see the reflection of dead bodies in it,” Hermione said before thinking, feeling some sort of glee to finally admit it to someone. “Sometimes when I open a book I think that something is jumping out of the spine to hurt me, and I can do nothing but close it right and throw it beneath my bed.”

McGonagall nodded. “I think booking you in for some appointments with Mrs Cressida may help as well.”

Hermione’s headache continued to thud in the back of her skull. She thought maybe it was just a constant reminder of her educational downfall, taunting her until she felt sick with guilt.

“Who?” Hermione’s brow shot up beneath a tuft of hair falling over her forehead.

“Ah, she is a new member of staff, she's here for students who need somebody to talk to about their problems. She trained in post-traumatic stress, anxiety and isolation.”

“Right. Is that non-negotiable as well?” Hermione always had problems opening up to people. Especially strangers she had never met. The thought of having to speak to a woman she didn't even knew made her rather brazen.

“Yes, Hermione, it’s important you speak to someone about the issues you just told me about.” The headmistress was writing something onto a neat, mint green sheet of parchment, to Hermione, it looked like a new schedule being formed.

It was silent for a few minutes as she continued to write with a sleek quill. Hermione’s hearing started to feel slightly fuzzy, and she blamed it on the annoying constant ticking of the moon-shaped clock on the table behind McGonagall's chair.

“Right. In regards to the classes you want to continue studying…” Mcgonagall plucked another piece of mint-green parchment and began to write. “You are still doing fine in ancient runes, so I suggest you keep that, plus it can be helpful for all types of career paths...”

Maybe Professor Griffiths just didn’t know how much better she was last year. Hermione nodded anyway and allowed Mcgonagall write it down.

The ticking seemed to be getting progressively louder. Hermione desperately tried to not let it bother her.

“And defence against the dark arts...you are _more_ than equipped at protecting yourself. You know more protective spells than _I_ do myself! But having it on your resume will look fantastic, so I suggest you keep this on your timetable.” Hermione nodded, Mcgonagall added it to the timetable she was writing.

“Now, charms or transfiguration?” McGonagall pushed her glasses up that had started to slip on her nose. “Both are useful, and you are great at both, so it’s just a matter of choice.”

Hermione pursed her lips together. She remembered the fact Ron was in her charms class.

“Transfiguration, I think.” Hermione nodded her head in a matter-of-fact way. She tried to make herself seem confident about the choice because deep down the fact she was having to slice her timetable in the first place was extremely disheartening.

“And I think it’s clear that potions will be the last class you will remain in. It’s probably the most important to have.” McGonagall opened the files again and flipped to a page where her eyes ran over the parchment. “And, I’m sad to see how far your grades have dropped, Hermione, in just two weeks…”

The headmistress sighed and pursed her lips at the parchment in front of her. Hermione craned her neck to try and get a look at the awful things Slughorn was saying about her in her reports, but she couldn’t see anything other than the word “ _disappointing_.”

“Potions used to be one of your top classes, is there a specific reason you are falling so far behind?” McGonagall still looked at the files. Hermione thought maybe she was avoiding her eye. “No offence to you dear, but it’s very...it’s important that you get back on track in potions, especially if you still want to go into healing.”

Hermione felt her head pounding harder than it had ever before. McGonagall's words continued to blur with the sound of her ticking moon-shaped clock and the throbbing sound in her skull.

“I’ve set up some hours for you to have some tutoring for potions, twice a week, it’s all written on your new schedule.” Hermione’s eyes widened at Mcgonagall’s words, and she had to take a moment to realise she hadn’t imagined it. “You’ll be tutored by student with the best marks so far, it’s also a way for him to add something nice onto his resume.”

Hermione frowned. “Who is it?”

“I thought you’d take the news of being tutored more detrimental than this, well, it’s great to see that you can admit that you need some help following the war…” Was Mcgonagall avoiding her question? “Many students have been signed up for tutoring, so don’t feel as if you are alone, dear.”

“Who will be tutoring me?” Hermione’s frown deepened so much she could see her eyebrows. She didn’t know there was anyone who was actually _above_ her in terms of class ranking, even _if_ she was falling behind. How awful was she really doing?

McGonagall cleared her throat and averted her eyes, looking down at her crossed hands that were wrinkled, each dent of skin telling a tale of something wise. Hermione had never had a chance to ask her about her life before teaching, the prospect of war always got in the way.

“It’ll be Draco Malfoy.”

Suddenly, Mcgonagall’s voice was loud and clear, the sound of her throbbing headache and the ticking of the clock blurring into one dull undertone.

“ _What?”_ Hermione shook her head. “No, _no_! There’s no way! The fact you’d even let him back into the school was already worrying but the fact you now trust him to _help_ me is absolutely barking!”

“And what is your reason for refusing his help?” McGonagall twitched an eyebrow. “I have spoken to you on _more_ than one occasion regarding his and his fellow Slytherin’s returns to the school. I thought it was clear that I trust him, and so should you.”

Hermione felt bile rising in her stomach. Not only was the idea of having to be tutored absolutely strenuous, but the idea of having to sit in a classroom _alone_ with someone like Draco Malfoy was absolutely absurd. The thought of it made her palms sweat.

“Professor I just don’t see that working out in any way shape or form. We never got along as it was and he fought for the opposition during the war! It would end in disaster.” Hermione shook her head again. “There is no one else who would take the role?”

McGonagall remained calm despite Hermione’s growing frustration. She simply continued to look at her through warm eyes without a flicker of offence regarding the way Hermione was raising her voice at a headmistress.

“Mr Malfoy is the only person in that classroom that would’ve ever rivalled you on the rank for top student. He is very skilled in potions even if he never admitted it, top marks since first year.” McGonagall explained smoothly, as if this was all very normal. “It would only benefit you, Hermione, and help you return to the witch I knew before the war, the one who wouldn’t leave the classroom until the potion was perfect.”

Hermione clicked her tongue and slumped back in her seat, desperate to leave the classroom and the prospect of having to be taught by Draco along with it.

“And how will he react to having to help the _filthy Mudblood_?”

McGonagall let out a small puff of laughter. Hermione did not agree that it was at all amusing.

“He has already agreed to it. He _was_ apprehensive of course, but once he realised how great this would look on his resume, he was more than happy to agree.” The teacher said, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. “Your first session with him will be tomorrow at six in the evening.”

Hermione could not speak. She kept her eyes trained carefully to the moon-clock behind the headmistress. It seemed to be moving at double the speed now Hermione had learnt there was something she did not want to look forward to.

“You need to realise my dear, that people change. Including you.” McGonagall continued. “I think you’d be the first to know if I had any qualms about letting the boy back into _my_ school. Just trust me on this one, I want nothing more than to see the witch I once knew.”

Bile was rising in Hermione’s throat. She cleared it and averted her eyes from the narrow hands of the clock back to the eyes that were narrowing towards her.

“If he’s in any way—“

“If he causes any trouble with you, let me know right away.” Hermione hadn’t realised she was so predictable. It was silent for several seconds. “You’re a great witch, Hermione, I’m only doing this so you can reach your full potential.”

Hermione felt her head nodding without instructing it to. The dull throb of shame was back inside of her skull, threatening to lull her from her chair and onto the cold, hard stone of the office floor.

“Very well. I hope things get more positive from now on, especially with your sessions with Mrs Cressida, just know you and Ron are more than welcome to use the floo network once a month to check in with Harry if you so please.” Mcgonagall began folding the two mint-green pieces of parchment and put them into a small white envelope. “How is Mr Weasley, anyway? I—Well I don’t mean to intrude on your relationship, but I’ve happened to notice he’s been canoodling with...well…”

Ah. The golden question Hermione was hoping to avoid unless completely necessary. Hermione hoped the sound of the rain was enough to block out the sound of her thumping heart, because she was sure it was beating loud enough for the entire school to hear.

“Ron has perfect liberty to kiss whomever he likes,” Hermione said, not noticing the way her nails were beginning to slice lines in her palms. “We decided to just remain as friends.”

McGonagall nodded and slid the envelope across the table as if it was hot to the touch. Hermione reluctantly reached out to grasp it and slid it into the pocket of her black robes as if it was waiting to detonate against her skin.

“And could that be why you are falling behind in your classes?” The question was carefully planned. Her voice was laced with a certain type of kindness that made Hermione feel as if she was _cared_ about, but a certain type of malice was edging at the seams, which made Hermione believe Mcgonagall was simply afraid that she had become a lovesick fool.

“If boys had enough power to make me fail my classes, this meeting would have been a long time ago.” Hermione sighed, remembering back to her troubles in sixth year. She pushed it to the back of her mind and went to stand.

“Oh! Before you go!” McGonagall scrambled inside of her desk and drew out what Hermione assumed to be a book wrapped in colourful paper. She handed it to her over the desk. “A present, for your birthday tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Professor.” Hermione slid the paper into her bag. It was a lot heavier against her spine than she had anticipated. “I’m sorry I can’t be as great as I used to be.”

With that, Hermione left the office and the irritant ticking of the clock with it. She walked with no destination other than her bed, feeling shame sinking through the holes in her skin and into her bloodstream.

—

It was eleven in the evening when Hermione finally stopped crying and slid beneath her duvet covers.

The present from McGonagall had been a light blue journal, the first three pages had been filled with pictures of Hermione she didn’t know existed, ones that had been filed away into school reports and files.

The smile on her face is what made it sad. She didn’t think she had smiled like that since the day she had danced with Harry in the woods. Her smile now felt dormant, lifeless, non-existent.

The remaining pages were bare, left hauntingly empty for Hermione to fill with her own pictures, ones of the future. Hermione silently wondered if she would have pictures happy enough to ever add to the collection.

But inside the book was a curled up necklace. It was made of a silver chain, thin and dainty yet incredibly pretty as it glimmered ever so slightly. At the end of the chain was a beautiful pendant, which was glowing a light teal that reflected on the palms of her hands when she picked it up.

She put the book on the bedside cabinet and placed the necklace on top of the hardback cover and drew her curtains, casting a spell to muffle the sounds of snoring.

Hermione fell asleep with the same thudding in her head that had accompanied her for the entire day, and she thought about the fact that tomorrow would be her birthday. 

She silently prayed that nineteen would be a happy year before the sweet release of sleep engulfed her.


	4. Two.

Headaches were not unusual but they were not entirely common throughout Hermione's life.

She only really started to experience headaches after the battle, here and there. Maybe once a week she'd have a dull thumping in the back of her skull, like a strange constant reminder of when she smacked her head against the stone in the courtyard. Just sitting there and engraving into her soul.

But when she woke on her nineteenth birthday, Hermione almost cried out in pain the moment she opened her eyes.

She had never had a headache to _this_ extreme. It was piercing, throbbing throughout every inch of her skull. It almost felt as if her brain was splitting in two, digging and carving at the deepest parts of her conscience.

With a hiss, she sat upright, pressing two fingers against each side of her temple and rubbing it to try and soothe the burn. But it was no use, the headache didn't slither away even an inch.

Pursing her lips, she sat for a moment, trying to think of a way to budge the pain in her skull without having to take a trip down to the infirmary. She knew from the way there was no sliver of silver sunlight etching through the gap in her bed-curtains that it was still early. She didn't want to be a bother.

Deciding that a shower would be the best option until the sun came up, she slid out of her bed and headed to the bathroom, not once looking up from her feet. She was surprised she even made it to the bathroom without stumbling because the migraine was beginning to thunder on to the point her vision felt foggy.

She blamed it on the shame of her meeting with the headmistress. She blamed it on the nerves and the embarrassment of anyone finding out that _she_ , Hermione Granger, was struggling with her academics.

No. Not possible. She couldn't let anyone find out. _Especially_ not the fact she was going to be tutored by Draco Malfoy, of all people.

With a gulp, she pushed away the shame she was feeling and wandered into the bathroom. The lights were off, meaning that nobody else was awake yet.

Strangely, there was a weird red glow when she walked in–a faint colour of crimson reflecting against the white tiles on the walls.

Once again, she pursed her lips and blamed it on her headache and flicked on the light. It did nothing to wean her pain, and she visibly shivered with discomfort when the light hit her eyes, but she shook her head and showered.

It was only when the water turned off did she think something felt wrong. It was only then, when she realised she had just showered in freezing cold water and didn't even so much as flinch, did she think maybe she really was sick.

But no. It wasn't a sickness. It wasn't a bug or something she had eaten. It was something worse, something evil, something cruel.

She saw it when she stepped out of the shower, her eyes landing on the large stretch of mirror by the sinks.

For a moment she thought she was imagining it. That it wasn't really there, that it wasn't hanging over her head in a tidal wave of cardinal. But she blinked, and it remained. She blinked again, squeezing her eyes shut so tightly she saw stars.

When she realised it was still there, and it was not a fragment of her imagination, she screamed and slipped to the floor, only able to lean against the sink by dragging herself up with her fingers.

Above her head was a large red glare, with luminous writing sitting inside of it. It reminded her instantly of the alarm clocks muggles sometimes used, the ones that burn your soul when you wake up in the morning and see the projection of red on the wall.

She tried blinking it away again, hoping it was just a fragment of her imagination messing with her, taunting her. Maybe even punishing her for being so lousy with her studies.

But no. It stayed. Pulsating over her head, so bright it almost hurt to look at.

Hermione pressed her hand to the mirror, wiping away some of the condescension to get a better look at the orb above her head, floating as if it was oh-so usual. She didn't realise how much her fingers were trembling, or how dark her pupils had become. She didn't notice her black undereyes or dewy pale skin, or the way her headache was slowly dying away in a strange stinging manner.

She could only stare up at _it_. Whatever it was.

She could only read the glowing writing within the glare, over and over and over again until the words began to blur.

 _Diem Mortis_.

Hermione was smart enough to know that the words were Latin.

Hermione was smart enough to know instantly that this translated to something surrounding death.

Upon reading it for the twentieth time, her heart thumping so heavily in her chest, it hit her, the years of Latin she had studied finally coming to her aid.

Diem Mortis— _Day Of Death_.

—

For an hour, Hermione sat curled up into a wet ball on the floor in the Gryffindor bathroom.

Her lungs were giving out on her. Her insides were twisting as if she was being gutted like a fish, and her headache had turned into nothing but a weak, dull undertone in her skull.

It only took her half an hour to put the pieces together. She was falling behind in her classes, but she was still _smart_. She was still smart enough to know what the blaring red glare above her curly head reminded her of—the red shot of light that had hit her moments before Voldemort's death.

Maybe his spell wasn't botched like she had thought.

Maybe it had just needed a while to simmer. To activate.

The thought made her almost double over in sickness, her fingers shaking so vigorously they began to hurt.

Day of death. Was today _her_ day of death?

Or was it a loose translation for a curse Hermione had no clue about?

It took her a while to gather her limbs and stand up once more, only doing so when she could hear the pattering of feet etching towards where she was still occupied.

"Hermione? Are you okay?" She didn't expect it to be Ginny. But Hermione could recognise her voice like the back of her hand. "I heard you sneak off to the bathroom hours ago, what are you doing?"

Ginny pushed open the door and entered, and Hermione braced herself to hear Ginny scream, to gasp or stumble at the light above her head. But Ginny didn't make a sound, not one even a murmur.

Yet, it was Hermione who gasped.

She wasn't the only one who had a red bubble, glare, reflection, whatever it bloody was, above her head.

Ginny had one too. It was almost brighter, more jarring. More bone-shakingly terrifying.

Yet, the bubble-like glare above Ginny's orange hair didn't say Diem Mortis like Hermione's did.

It said cancer.

 _Cancer_.

Hermione was very still for a moment. Then another wave came crashing down over her, turning her legs into jelly—Diem Mortis—day of death— didn't mean it was _Hermione's_ turn to die. It meant she would be able to see how everybody else was going to die instead.

Ginny was going to die of cancer. 

That was the worst type of pain Hermione had ever felt. Guilt. Fear. She felt absolutely haunted with confusion.

Hermione nearly fell to the ground again, but Ginny reached out and grabbed her bare arm, holding her steady.

"Are you okay?" Ginny asked again, raising a brow. "You look as pale as a ghost!"

"I'm—I—" How could she even comprehend that this was really happening? To her, it felt like she was trapped inside of a nightmare, desperately clinging to her conscience to wake up. "I can—"

Why couldn't she speak?

Every inch of her soul was screaming out to tell Ginny what was happening, to beg for help, to beg for some sort of release, but she _couldn't_. The words were getting stuck in her throat before they left her mouth, binding her with pained secrecy.

"What?" Ginny's head was tilting to the side. "Are you sure you're okay?"

As Ginny tilted her head, the crimson bubble moved with it, reflecting off the washroom tile walls like a radiant red star.

"I can—" No. The words wouldn't come out. They were trapped, swelling inside of her voice box and threatening to snap it in half. "I—"

Hermione felt as if she was going to explode. She clutched her throat and rubbed it in some desperate attempt to let the words leave her mouth, but they would not.

They were cursed inside of her, trapping her with the secret.

"I'm fine," Hermione said with a gulp, but she was shivering ever so slightly, her fingers trembling when she crossed her arms over her half-naked body. "Why are you awake so early?"

"Well..." Ginny mused, face becoming rather excited, her cheeks glowing pink. "It's your birthday! I've got you some gifts!"

Ginny rushed to grab Hermione her robes, as she had forgotten them. While waiting for Ginny to return, Hermione did nothing but stare into the mirror at her new limb hanging over her head like a vice.

 _Diem Mortis._  
Diem Mortis.  
Diem Mortis.

Hermione repeated the words over and over and over again in a whisper, desperately trying to think if she'd ever heard those words before, but she hadn't. Not in a magical sense, anyway. Not in a spell or a curse, and this— _this_ was definitely a curse made by someone as evil as The Dark Lord.

She couldn't ponder for much longer, because Ginny reappeared. She was holding Hermione's robes and threw them at her, yelling at her to hurry up and get changed, which she obliged, and she followed Ginny back out into the dorm room, which was now shadowed in the pale morning light, the hue of orange bouncing inside of the red bubble above Ginny's head and swarming it with a sense of dread as the orange merged with the red for a brief second, making it look like fire.

Not many girls in Hermione's year had returned for an eight-year and many of the girls in Ginny's year had opted to be homeschooled due to the fear of coming back to a place that had been drenched in death, so the dorm room was rather bare, only half of the beds having sheets on them.

Parvati and Ginny's friend Marie had disappeared, most likely heading down early for breakfast, so it was just Ginny and Hermione left in the dorm room. She didn't complain. Would she really want to see how Parvati and Marie would die just minutes after discovering her best friend would die from the world's most evil disease? No. Not really.

Ginny gifted Hermione a book, it was a Muggle book from an author Hermione knew, but she had not read this book in particular. It seemed new, the cover clean and tidy and the pages perfectly upkeeped. The title made Hermione have to swallow the bile that had appeared in her throat, but she thanked Ginny nevertheless and put it on her bedside table.

Ginny gave Hermione Molly and Harry's gifts on their behalf. Molly had knitted her a dark red scarf, with a small note; _To prepare for the coming winter. Happy birthday, my dear Hermione._

Harry had also given Hermione a book, but it was non-fiction unlike Ginny's; _A guide to becoming a healer._ Hermione put the gifts on her bed and told Ginny to remind her to send them a thank you letter when the owlery opened up.

Hermione noticed the necklace McGonagall had gifted her sitting on her bedside table, still glowing a shimmering blue. Hermione snatched it up and put it around her neck. To her shock, the blue pendant turned a dark, swarming red. She tucked it beneath her shirt.

Hermione had barely even processed the gifts or the change in colour to her necklace. She was too busy thinking about the horror Voldemort had installed on her soul. She kept glaring up at the word _cancer_ above her best-friends head, pulsating, making it impossible for Hermione to ignore.

How _could_ she ignore it? All she wanted was to reach out and hug Ginny, to warn her, to ask for some sort of help, but she couldn’t. She was trapped with this pain, with this _secret_. With the curse.

Before Hermione even had a chance to brush through her hair, Ginny was attaching a hand to her wrist and was pulling her towards the great hall, rambling on about how 'if she whispered that it was her birthday the house-elves would send up some special cake. But she didn’t care about cake.

She didn’t want to go to the great hall.

She didn’t want to see how everybody was going to die. How all of her friends would perish.

But she had no choice, Ginny was pulling her down the corridor, her feet moving faster than Hermione could keep up with.

—

Hermione wasn’t sure what she was expecting. Hermione wasn’t prepared for what she was about to see, not in any way shape or form.

The moment she entered the great hall, a few steps behind Ginny, she was met with a sea of red, bright and crimson above every head.

It was haunting, painful, overwhelming.

Everywhere she dared to look was red, hundreds and hundreds of bright crimson glares above each head, sitting there as if they were an extra limb. As if it was normal.

Hermione tried to avert her eyes, she tried to stare down at her shoes or up at the ceiling that was draped in thick smoggy clouds, but she couldn’t help but stare as she passed students, eyes falling over the pulsating words above everyone’s head. Hermione felt sick at the ways people would perish. She felt sick because she was so helpless.

She walked past the Ravenclaw table and saw Padma, above her head read _drowning._ Beside her was Luna, reading _animal bite._

She shuffled past the Hufflepuff table, desperately trying to avoid seeing the downfalls of people around her, but she couldn’t help but catch a few. Hannah Abbott, a mere friend of Hermione’s that she had spent some time with during the DA meetings, would die in a _house fire._ And Ernie Macmillan would die of a _botched_ _spell._

Hermione silently wondered about what type of spell would kill him. She wondered if there would be anything she could do to help, to stop it, but she knew that it was inevitable. Voldemort had cursed her in the worst way. He had made her helpless.

Her eyes raked the letters around her over and over again, falling onto students she knew and students she didn’t know, _curse, old age, drowning, choking, car crash, burning, flying accident..._ so many things Hermione had never even thought of being a cause of perishing.

“Happy birthday!” Hermione felt two hands on her shoulders and she tore her eyes away from the crowd of red and let them fall onto the face of Neville, who was gleaming down at her, the ghost of the red glares shining in his brown eyes. “I got you a gift!”

Hermione avoided looking above his head as she replied.

“Thank you, Neville, you really shouldn’t have…” She gulped and looked down at her shoes.

She allowed him to tug her the rest of the way to her usual spot on the Gryffindor table, near the top by the professors. She could hear Seamus chatting loudly to what Hermione assumed to be Ron. The thought of Ron made her stomach curl in sickness. She didn’t want to know how Ron would die. To her, she had never even considered something like _that_. She never wanted to. She didn’t want to. Ron may have broken her heart, in more ways than one, but she still held onto the memories of her childhood with him. Thinking about his death would do nothing but set her heart on edge.

Trying to push it to the back of her mind, she turned on the stretch of stool and instead looked up at Neville who was sitting opposite her, holding out a small box wrapped in brown parchment.

Hermione felt some sort of relief when she noticed the red bubble above his head read _old age._ At least Neville would live a long life. She couldn’t be certain that would be the case for Ginny, Padma, Luna, and all of the others she had just discovered. Who knew when cancer would take her best friend? Who knew when Luna would be bitten by something that would _kill_ her?

“It’s not much, so I’m sorry, but it’s really—“ He paused and let her take the gift. “—I think it’s cool…”

It was in fact, very cool. It was a box that contained seeds for Hermione to grow her very own Mimbulus mimbletonia plant and a small blue pot for her to place soil.

“Thank you, Neville,” Hermione said with a forced smile. Hermione wanted to talk about something so that she could avoid thinking about death. “Have you—Well, have you dropped any of your subjects recently?”

Neville nodded as the food appeared on the table. Hermione didn’t dare to touch it, she felt as if she’d throw up if she even thought about eating something.

“I’ve decided I don’t want to be an Auror anymore. The battle really shook me, so I've been finding it hard to focus in certain classes. Me and McGonagall decided it would be best for me to do more calming subjects, so I’m sticking with Herbology, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures and Astrology.” Neville explained as he began to dig into his breakfast. “I’m also going to be having private tutoring for Herbology, because I’m hoping to go into magical plants when I leave in the summer…”

Neville’s voice began to drown out as she unconsciously began to fire her eyes around the great hall again, still avoiding Ron who was a few seats down.

She didn’t want to look. But she couldn’t help but look. How could she not be curious even if it made her sick to her stomach? How could she not try to lap up as much information as she could to try and figure out what was truly happening to her? She made a mental note to head to the library to study curses that night, _after_ her tutoring.

Her eyes fell over Megan Jones, who would die of _accidental poisoning._ And then to Marcus Belby, who would die by _falling._

And then she saw it.

A break in the sea of crimson.

A spot of emptiness in the swell of pulsating cardinal, like a hopeful white foamy wave in the impounding sea of death.

She squinted, trying to figure out where the gap was coming from, and then found herself staring into the face of Draco Malfoy, who was sitting peacefully with his potions book on his propped-up knee.

She blinked and then blinked again, trying to decipher whether it was her mind playing tricks on her. But no, _no_ the ghostly crack in the red was definitely coming from _him_. Because there was no red bubble above his head, no writing and no cause of death reflecting against his white hair.

Nothing. Empty. Haunting. 

Hermione frowned, feeling a swell of confusion rising inside of her stomach. It made little sense, how could she see everybody's demise in the room, but _his_?

As she continued to stare, waiting for the glare of red to suddenly appear, Draco looked up at her, as if he could feel her eyes on him. He caught her eye, a dark, haunting expression falling over his gaze, one perfectly shaped brow rising an inch higher than the other. She quickly looked somewhere else, trying to play it off. But he was still glaring at her, the heat of his sneer falling onto her skin. 

Someone waved a hand in front of her face and she was snapped back into reality, desperately trying to push Draco to the back of her mind.

“So?” Neville raised a brow as he put a spoon into his mouth. “Are you?”

Hermione cleared her throat and shook her head, trying to clear it from the image of Draco’s eyes glaring at her from across the room.

“Am I what?”

Neville let out a small laugh and popped more food into his mouth, his spoon dangling in the air.

“Are you dropping any subjects? I mean, we’ve all assumed that you won’t be, seeing as you _are_ Hermione Granger…” He waved his hand and continued. “Seamus is dropping a few, Ginny is too, so that she has more time to focus on training.”

Hermione's heart clenched. She hadn't realised her fingernails were digging into the wood of the stool beneath her until she felt her fingers aching.

“Oh, I—Oh…” She paused. “Well you see—“

At that moment, Ginny span beside her and grasped her shoulders, interrupting her like some sort of angel. Neville took no notice that she never answered her question and shrugged, digging into more of his breakfast.

Hermione still kept her eyes steadily away from the Slytherin table. She also had to force herself to stare at Ginny’s excited face rather than wandering in the direction of Ron’s voice. She positively did not want to look Ron’s way, for more reasons than one.

“So, it’s your birthday,” Ginny said with a taut smirk. “Drinks in the common room tonight?”

Hermione pursed her lips. She could think of nothing worse to do. Especially after waking up and realising the curse, Voldemort sent her way all those months ago had the power to make her feel like _this._

“Well, we could do…” Hermione tried to sound excited, but she knew her voice was coming out flat. “Would it be many of us?”

Many of us. What she really meant was; _would I have to discover more deaths of the people I love today?_

“Well, us Gryffindors of course. Then Padma, Luna too most likely.” Ginny shrugged. Her hands were still on Hermione’s shoulders, sitting there, bleeding into her skin. “You don’t seem excited? Luna said her dad made this _amazing_ whiskey with mushroom extract—“

Hermione suddenly remembered that today was the day she would have her first tutoring session with Draco. She inwardly wanted to scream, why was the one person who was exempt from this nightmare also someone she’d be forced to spend time with?

“I am excited!” Hermione lied. Of course she was lying, deep down she knew that Ginny could tell. “I have a...meeting tonight, at six, but yeah, yeah I’d be more than happy to have some drinks, as long as it’s kept decently quiet…”

Ginny rolled her eyes and spun back around towards the table. Hermione cast her eyes back to the table, as Ginny’s new position gave Hermione a quick glance of Ron’s face. She felt her stomach churn.

“Don’t worry, it won’t be a massive thing. I know what you’re like with these things.” Ginny began to stab her pancakes with her fork. “And what meeting?”

Hermione found her eyes lifting back towards the Slytherin table without them meaning to. Her breath caught in her throat when she saw that Draco was still gazing over at her, sneering as if she was dirt beneath his shoe. His icy eyes sent a chill down her spine.

“It’s just—well it's a meeting with a Professor, that’s all,” Hermione said as she attempted to bite at the corner of her toast, but she couldn’t stomach it.

“Right.” Ginny shrugged again, not taking much notice of what Hermione was saying. “Are you going to whisper that it’s your birthday for some free cake or not?”

—

The day moved painfully slowly. It was like time had been turned on its back, and it felt like it took five hours to get through her first class of the day. Then she had almost broken down in tears during her transfiguration class when she walked in and saw the pounding red bubble of death above Mcgonagall’s head.

_Old age._

It was a relief. She had almost relished in it before she reminded herself that this _wasn’t_ a good thing. It wasn’t a positive thing that she could see how her headmistress was going to die, even if it was the most pleasant cause of death she had seen that day.

The feeling of relief was not long-lived when she had looked towards Blaise Zabini as he sat nonchalantly taking notes with his quill, the red glare over his dark hair reading “ _Cerebrumous Spattergroit_ ”. It had caused Hermione to feel rather sick, even if she was not a huge fan of Blaise. She couldn’t focus for the rest of the lesson and instead had spent her time pondering over why Spattergroit would _kill_ him. It was an illness that could be healed even if it was incredibly infectious. Unless you were very old and weak or had pre-existing health conditions.

She was almost tempted to ask Blaise if he had any illnesses but he zoomed out of the classroom the moment McGonagall signalled the end of the class.

Hermione was packing up her stuff when McGonagall cornered her, her hat falling down her head as she rushed towards her.

“Hermio—Miss Granger,” She puffed, straightening her robes. Hermione looked up at her, seeing the reflection of the red glare from above her own head in her eyes, knowing it was actually void from her teacher's vision.

“Yes, professor?” Hermione’s voice was shaking.

“Happy birthday, my dear,” Her voice was soft, but laced with a certain amount of apprehension. “I wanted to remind you of your tutoring session with Mr Malfoy in about—“

The teacher paused and looked at her wristwatch.

“Ah, half an hour.” Hermione cringed at the reminder, feeling her stomach churn with foreboding. “I think it’s clear to say that you and him don’t get along, but as a teacher, I’m doing what’s best for _both_ of you. He will be impolite and hard to speak to, as I'm sure you will be as well. Just try and push past that, and get the work done.”

Hermione wanted to roll her eyes. She didn’t.

“Right.” Hermione nodded, keeping her eyes downcast. She was doing everything in her power to not look at the words above her head. Death was consuming her in the most earnful way, swallowing her like a vice.

“Are you feeling alright, dear?” McGonagall tilted her head. “You look awfully pale.”

Maybe she could tell McGonagall. Maybe she could confess her curse and get a cure.

“Professor, have you ever—“ _heard of a curse that makes you see death?_ She could not say it. The words were stuck in her throat. “I woke up and I can—“ _see how you are going to die._ No, she couldn’t say that either.

Her hands balled into fists. “Don’t worry, actually, I better head to the dungeons.”

McGonagall gave a stiff nod and watched Hermione disappear.

She didn’t head straight to the dungeons. Instead, she crawled into an alcove by the window and watched the rain cascade across the grounds, coating the floor in a glimmer of dew. She cried as she watched the sun quickly set behind the forest, plunging the school into darkness. She cried and prayed that this was a one-time thing. That when she wakes up in the morning it’ll be gone, and that there will be no sea of crimson taunting her everywhere she goes. But she wasn’t hopeful.

Half an hour later, Hermione took a deep breath before pushing open the door to the potions classroom, silently and desperately hoping that Draco had changed his mind about this whole thing. But she knew the moment she stepped in and heard the hissing of the flame beneath the cauldron that he was already there.

“You're late.” His voice was bored, rough. She didn’t have to glance up at him to know he was rolling his eyes.

She set her bag on a table by the window and finally looked up at him. He was crushing something with the flat side of a blade, his face half engulfed by the warm ambers of the fire that were keeping his potion warm. There were two heated cauldron’s on the table, one clear and one a deep shade of orange.

Hermione frowned at the clock with wiggly arms on the wall. It was exactly six.

“No, _you’re_ early.” She said, but she didn’t have enough in her to make it sound angry.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even so much as look her way. He kept his eyes trained carefully on the substance beneath his blade, the veins on the back of his hands seeming very prominent from the pressure he was applying.

“So…” Hermione cleared her throat, hating the way the air in the room had tightened. “What are _you_ going to be _teaching_ me then?”

He huffed and brushed the blonde hair out of his face with the back of his hand. Without saying anything, he reached beside him and picked up a sheet of brown parchment and tossed it her way.

“What’s this?” Hermione frowned, taking the paper and examining it.

“What, you can’t read now either?” His voice was short. Like he didn’t care one bit. “It’s the potion Slughorn wants to be brewed, there are the ingredients, brew it.”

Slughorn’s handwriting was extremely messy, but Hermione _could_ make out that he wanted two vials of Dawdle Draught each, a potion to help separate traces on wizards. Hermione had made it only once before, and not very successfully. It wasn’t the type of potion that she _enjoyed_ to brew.

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek and tried to refrain from making a comment. He was meant to be _tutoring_ her, not simply standing there making one for himself while she struggled. She knew he’d be difficult, rude, boorish, but not _this_ closed off. She at least thought he’d insult her, even just once.

In silence, Hermione took the ingredients from the middle of the table they were standing at and began to follow the _loose_ instructions written by Slughorn.

Yet, it was hard to focus. All she could hear was the sound of his breathing, his annoyed sighs and grunts as he tore the valerian root with his bare hands, chucking it into the potion and stirring it without even touching the ladle.

It was hard to focus when he was the only person who didn’t have a glare of red above his head. He was the only person who still seemed somewhat normal. Somewhat untainted.

She let out a breathy laugh and shook her head. It felt rather ironic, the one person who she always compared to being as cold as death was the one person who was void of it. Maybe that was Voldemort’s plan all along. 

No, Voldemort wasn’t that smart.

She was tired. Annoyed, overwhelmed and very very _very_ confused.

Why _him?_

“Is there something in my hair, Granger?” Draco hissed, snapping her out of her gaze. “You’ve been staring at the top of my head for three minutes. You’re letting the Sopophorous bean melt.”

Hermione gasped and dropped her ladle, splashing the contents of her burning hot cauldron over the front of her robes.

“No—You’ve just—“ _Not got your death over your head like everybody else. “_ —Nevermind.”

He was glaring at her, eyebrows furrowed on his head. Hermione stared at him for one moment, watching the way the moon pooling in from the window dwindled in his cold eyes. There was something different about him this year. Not only was he mentally much more secluded, foreboding and somewhat...calm, he looked much older too. Hermione was just now noticing how his hair had grown longer and that it was curling at the nape of his neck, and how he looked taller, broader. Less childish, immature.

Draco did not respond. He simply continued to crush the bronze hermit crab shell with the back of his blade, his veins still pulsating beneath the moonlight. He was breathing heavy and paused for a moment to slide off his black Slytherin robes. This way, Hermione could see how his heavy breathing knocked at the walls of his white shirt, the buttons expanding against his chest, threatening to pop.

He put in the crushed shell and casually flipping the blade in his fingers, catching the handle before brushing his hair back again and beginning to slide the butterscotch. He was way ahead of her. She knew he was desperate to leave.

She scrunched her nose up and instead repaired the burnt beans and dropped in the valerian root, sighing when she noted that it took more than five seconds to dissolve, indicating the potion was too dewy.

“You need to add a spoonful of water,” Draco murmured, not even looking her way but acting as if he could easily spot the issue. "And maybe a pinch of salt..."

“Oh, you actually _want_ to help me now?” Hermione’s eyebrow raised and she saw Draco silently snort.

The air grew tight around them, tugging at her conscience like an elastic band waiting to snap.

“No, but your mixture is starting to smell,” He waved his hand and his ladle started to spin again, turning his potion a lighter tangerine hue. “ _Fix_ it or I’ll be sick.”

With a huff, she added a spoonful of water, hating that she had to oblige to _him._ She hated that _he_ was actually right. That he was showing a higher ability in something over her. Without wanting to really admit it, it damaged her pride. She had always loved being the best.

“I didn’t know you were so good at potions,” Hermione commented, simply trying to break the twinged tension in the room. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”

She glanced up to watch Draco’s reaction, but he didn’t even flinch. He simply continued to go about his potion brewing as if he hadn’t even heard her.

It was silent for a few minutes, nothing but the rain against the dark window and the gurgling of the potions filling the room. She silently watched on as he continued to crush, crack, tear and stab at his ingredients, his ears turning red from the amount of effort he was putting in. He dropped in three chunks of butterscotch and he sighed in relief when it didn’t burn.

Her mind started to wander to the situation at hand once more. She had almost forgotten the curse placed on her because Draco did _not_ fall into the same boat as everybody else. He was the odd one out. She pursed her lips and had to remind herself to keep stirring the potion, but it didn’t clear her mind.

She wished she could tell someone. Even if it was him.

“Malfoy, do you ever—“

“Did something happen to your brain or something?” He huffed, tearing his eyes away from his cauldron to sneer at her. He looked cruel, almost like the Draco she remembered from before the war. But he also looked tired, fed up, infirm.

He was like a candle's flame being swayed both ways in the wind. 

Undecided. Unsure. Nothing but the haunting nothingness behind his eyes and a familiar twinge at the edges of his lips.

“What—What do you mean?” Hermione frowned.

He scoffed again, clearly a habit of his. He turned his heat to low and turned to face her, his arms crossed happily across his shirt-front.

“You’re Hermione Granger. Hogwarts most annoyingly smart witch. Terribly sufficient, too clever for her own good, too confident for her own ego as well.” He was looking down at her through his nose, his eyes raking her as if she was vile. “You wouldn’t go ten minutes without bragging about a grade or jumping up and down on your stool like you were about to wet yourself just to prove to the class you knew the answer.”

He paused and moved his eyes to the window like the sight of her confused face annoyed him.

“But now, _now_ you don’t even fucking _speak._ You’re failing potions and need a _tutor._ To me, that fucking insane. Isn’t it insane?” Hermione noted how this was the most she’d heard him speak since returning for her eighth-year. She noted how his voice was full of malice, anger, resentment, but was just as full of bewilderment. “You don’t beg to tell the teachers your answers anymore, you don’t spend all your free time sitting in the library with your face so close to a book you could taste it…”

Anger began to bubble inside of her and she felt herself growing hot with embarrassment. He was right. Of course he was. Anyone with half a brain was able to see that she was different, that she wasn’t the witch she had been last year. But she _hated_ that he was right. She hated that he was the only person who had actually noticed it.

“We went through a war, Malfoy.” She spat, ignoring the burning smell coming from beneath her. “Of course I’m different, of course I'm not as enthusiastic about—it doesn’t matter to you!”

What she wanted to say was; _The Dark Lord cursed me! Turned me into his puppet of death. I have to discover how everybody I love is going to die and there’s nothing that I can do about it, no way to save them or warn them! Nothing!_

But she couldn't. She could not mutter a word.

She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent herself from crying. To prevent herself from passing out on the floor, the feeling of overwhelming fear coasting through her veins.

He held his hands up in fake surrender with a roll of his eyes and stalked towards the bottle cabinet, pulling out two vials for himself. Once again, he did not speak.

The most painful weapon was silence, and he knew that was what would annoy her the most.

As he bottled the potion and placed the corks in the top, he shook his head, a small smirk gracing his features as if he was thinking about something funny.

“And why are you so different too?” Hermione asked, swallowing a lump in her throat she didn’t know was there. “You haven’t insulted me _once_ since we came back, haven’t tripped me over or called me a Mudblood, haven’t so much as even laughed in my direction, why is that?”

She was pointing at him angrily, finger waving in the air as if it was some sort of weapon.

He turned on his heels and began to walk towards the desk at the front, but not before stopping right beside her.

“I went through a war too,” She had no time to prepare for him gripping her wrist that had been lingering in the gap between them. “You’re not fucking special, Granger.”

His fingers were wrapped around her bone so tightly she felt as if they were going to snap. His hands were warm and rough, not cold and icy like she had been expecting. He pulled her wrist and directed her hand back to her ladle that was sticking out of her cauldron, away from where it had been pointing towards his chest.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before he spoke. “Finish the potion and make sure it’s decent, I want this to look good on my resume.”

And with that, he brushed past her, dropping his vials on Slughorn’s desk before he stormed out of the room, letting the wooden door slam behind him. 


	5. Three.

Hermione’s tears felt like raindrops scattering down her cheeks, sinking into the soft plush of her skin. Part of her felt absolutely stupid for crying–for being so weak and foolish, but part of her knew it was the only thing she _could_ do to release some of the upheavals she had been faced with.

She wiped the wet droplets away with the buds of her thumbs and whispered the password to the portrait, finding herself swarmed with hundreds of red bubbles bouncing around the warm common room the moment she stepped in.

She had almost forgotten in her mere forty-five minutes she spent with Draco that this had happened. That she had been twinged into a veil of death. Because he was so empty. So haunting.

Her eyes instantly fell to the floor, desperately trying to avoid looking at the death of people she didn't want to see. Like Ron or Dean, or Parvati or Marie, of anyone she knew, really.

“Hermione!” It was Ginny, her voice radiating across the swarm of people dancing around the room in little huddles. “Over here!”

Hermione reluctantly looked up and saw Ginny jumping from a stool she was standing on by the winding mahogany staircase that was decorated with crimson and gold. She discarded her red cup to the side and vanished it as she stumbled towards the middle of the room, her hands landing on Hermione's shoulders.

The red glare followed her the entire way. Sitting there. Lingering. Taunting her. Reflecting on the shine of her orange hair.

“Where have you been!” Ginny yelled over the music. It was a song Hermione did not like. “You’ve been forever!”

Hermione took a deep breath and forced a happy smile.

“I got caught up,” She tried to shrug casually, but the weight of the name _Draco Malfoy_ was sitting on the shoulders. “Are you sure we won’t get caught doing this?”

“No, no! We’ve charmed the walls so the prefects can’t hear the music, plus, it’s not even past the scheduled bed-time yet.” Ginny rolled her eyes and scanned the room. Hermione didn’t follow her eyes. She knew it would only tempt her to read. “I need another drink, what do you want, unicorn-gin and lemonade or a Firewhisky and cola?”

Hermione shrugged knowing she wasn’t going to drink it either way. She wasn’t sure how much alcohol would help the bubbling swell of irresolute swarming through the cavities in her bones.

“Surprise me!” Her voice sounded excited enough and Ginny believed it, scrambling in the direction of the makeshift table of bottles they had created by the roaring fireplace.

Hermione could not feel the warmth from where she was standing.

“Hermione?” Someone was tapping on her shoulder. She could spot the voice any day of the week. Like the back of her hand. Only now, it didn’t comfort her, yet faintly reminded her of nails on a chalkboard.

She did not turn around. She was frozen with apprehension. She noticed that the glow of red beneath her white shirt coming from her necklace had swarmed into a deep, harrowing shade of black. She ignored it.

“Hey, Hermione, please don’t ignore me.” He mumbled, fingers still on her shoulder, burning holes into her skin. “You can’t be mad at me forever, you know…”

She noted his words were slurred and that she could smell the Firewhiskey rotting on his breath as it ghosted through her curls. He was _drunk_ , she knew that the moment he opened his mouth. He always was a vexatious drunk, never thinking before he spoke.

“Just give me a birthday kiss, Hermione…” She felt his chest against her back. Her breathing spiked, reminding her of what made her distaste him so much in the first place. “It'll make everything better...Maybe you’ll realise how much you miss me…”

Nobody seemed to look her way. Nobody seemed to notice the sweat on her brow and the way her fingers were trembling.

“You’ve had too much to drink, Ron.” Hermione swallowed her breath. Why was Ginny taking so long? "You didn't seem to miss me when–"

Her eyes scanned the room to find Ginny and found her talking vapidity to Parvarti. Hermione regretted reading when she unconsciously let her eyes fall over the words above her dark hair— _Car crash._ She remembered hearing Parvarti gushing that her sister was going to take her Muggle driving test in the upcoming summer.

And beside Parvarti was Luna, her head in Pansy Parkinson’s lap. Hermione had no time to dwell on the fact Pansy Parkinson was sitting in _her_ common room, laughing and joking like she _belonged_ therebecause the words _animal bite_ from Luna's bubble were bouncing inside of Hermione’s eyes and were enough to look back to the ground before she reached the top of Pansy’s head.

She hated Pansy but still didn’t want to know how she would perish. She loathed her but didn’t want to imagine Theodore Nott or Draco placing flowers on her grave.

She was quickly overwhelmed. Death washed over her, thick and hot like smoke. Ron had stepped even closer, his fingers desperately trying to latch onto her hands the way they had so many times before. She pushed them away, they kept grabbing. She hated this, hated _this_ Ron. She hated that she _hated_ him, hated what he had become. She hated that she still cared about what was hovering over his head.

“Hermione please forgive me…” His breath was on her neck, the smell of whiskey continuing to stain her soft skin. She felt as if she was going to throw up. “Please…”

His voice was drowning away, the vivid thumping of music swarmed her ears, blurring the lines between consciousness and imagination, making her tremble on the spot.

“S—Stop it, Ron.” She stammered, unsure if her words were even audible.

She had her eyes pressed shut, but she saw nothing but the reminiscence of cardinal in her eyelids.

Why was Ginny taking so long?

She wished she would hurry up. She wished she’d shoo Ron away and take her somewhere else, anywhere else but here.

“Why should I? I _love_ you, Hermione!” Ron hissed against her throat. She hadn’t realised he had pressed his chin to her neck. “You still love me too!”

Her knees gave way slightly and before Hermione had even questioned it, she was running in the direction of the portrait. She was stumbling quickly through bodies and ignoring the ‘happy birthday!’ calls coming her way.

She found herself heaving on the stone floor outside of the common room, desperately trying to catch her breath. Her heart was hammering in her chest, thumping over and over and over again as it moved towards her throat.

With a deep shaky breath, she began to walk in the direction of somewhere she knew would calm her. She kept her eyes on the floor, avoiding looking anywhere that would remind her of the battle. The reflection of the red glare above her head reflected on the stone floor by her black shoes, following her with no plan of leaving.

She tried to ignore it as she descended the staircase, gripping onto the bannister as it began to swing around. She ignored the bantering of the portraits and stumbled away from the Bloody Baron who was grumbling beneath his breath as he glided down towards the dungeons. She was shocked to see Baron’s death was sitting over his head, despite already being dead. 

Hermione wasn’t sure what time it was by now. As she walked, she noted how the sky behind the windows was crystal black and that the stars were hidden by thousands of fluffy grey clouds.

She had spent around an hour in the Potions classroom following Draco’s exit. She had to save her potion _twice_ when it started to turn brown but ultimately ended up placing two vials on the desk beside Draco’s. She ignored how his elixir was three shades lighter than her own. She had also spent half an hour sitting in the Potions classroom with her head on her knees, trying to clear her mind from the topic of death before she headed to _her_ party. It didn’t work.

When Hermione finally reached the little ledged alcove just a little left of the library, she stumbled into the dark nook which she usually took refuge in when she was overwhelmed. She perched herself onto the windowsill, overlooking the black lake which was rippling beneath the ivory moonlight.

A tear started to fall from her eye without her even thinking about it. She hardly even noticed.

Somebody cleared their throat beside her and she threw her hand up to her sternum in shock, not expecting anyone to be here at this hour.

“Can I help you?” He huffed, and Hermione finally let herself look to the other side of the cramped alcove and rolled her eyes when she saw a white-haired, death-free figure sitting on the opposite side of the windowsill.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know you were here.” Hermione tried to keep her voice level, but she knew it had been shaking. “What are you doing _here_?”

Hermione chanced looking at his expression. His eyes were cast out of the window, soaking in the cold light of the moon, swarming it with a wave-like blue swell. It was dark in the small nook, but half his face was visible. It was hard and stiff, his jaw clenching and unclenching in time with Hermione’s beating heart. She wondered if her heartbeat was as loud as it was for him as it was for her.

He was smoking. Hermione frowned at that, feeling her previous prefect instincts kicking in—smoking was banned and most likely always would be. He had propped open the edge of the window ever so slightly, but it didn’t stop the smoke from curling around her face and sinking into her nostrils.

With a small sniff, she realised it was in fact a Muggle cigarette, the type that damage your insides. 

“I could ask you the same question, Granger.” He seemed agitated, but not angry. She found it hard to read his tone. "What are _you_ doing here, after hours? I should take fifty points from Gryffindor."

She sighed and desperately tried to follow his eyes, but her gaze was stuck to his face, trying to figure out why he was acting so indifferent. So placid and calm. So unusual.

“I'm hiding from a party I didn’t want to go to in the first place.” She shrugged, watching him bring the cigarette to his lips and tap the ash out of the window. “This is my favourite place to hide, you know.”

He shrugged, not looking her way. She took this as an opportunity to wipe away a tear that was still escaping her eye, burning her skin with the reminder of her curse. Over and over and over again. She hoped he hadn’t seen her crying.

“I’m not leaving, if that’s what you’re hinting at,” He rolled his eyes ever so slightly, using his hand to swat away some of the smoke collecting in the gap between their bodies.

“Me either.” Hermione spat back, feeling some sort of annoyance growing inside of her.

How dare he sit in _her_ spot. How dare he take _her_ title of the top of the class. How dare he act so... _unbothered_ by her.

“I guess you’ll just have to cry with me watching, then.” He shrugged again. Hermione noticed he wasn’t in his robes, yet a black sweater and dress pants. Casual, yet so uncasual all at once. “Have _you_ come here to smoke too?”

He let out a short snort after saying it, like he couldn’t believe he had even bothered to ask, but then he shook his head and looked down at his lap before letting his eyes rise to her own, as if still expecting some form of a reply.

She gulped and shook her head.

“No.” She looked away, watching the ripples in the black lake from the movement of the creatures below it. Anything but to continue looking at his face. Anything. “I don’t see the point.”

He snorted again.

“It relieves stress, Granger.” His voice was like a blade through the cold air, sharp and cruel. “You clearly should fucking try it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She huffed back.

She was struggling to keep her eyes on the water, knowing there was a more haunting river between his eyes calling her. No, no she couldn’t look back into his cold eyes, they had always reminded her too much of death.

She didn’t need more of that.

“You have something up your ass this year, that’s what.” She heard his boots brushing the stone as his legs uncrossed. Feeling his foot brush her own in the gap between their bodies, she tried to not flinch. “You’re insufferable, you know that? Fucking insane.”

Hermione pursed her lips. She absentmindedly felt herself looking at him again, watching the way his eyes narrowed towards her as he took another drag of his cigarette.

He wasn’t wrong. She _was_ insane. She just wished she could tell him _why._

“I’m fucking insane? What’s wrong with you, Malfoy?” Without questioning it, Hermione held out her hand, signalling him to pass her the cigarette. If it relieved stress, maybe she _should_ try it. “There’s nothing up _my_ ass. Like I told you, I went through a fucking war! I think that gives me some right to be...stressed.”

_I’m failing all of my classes because I survived a war, broke up with my boyfriend, and now I’ve been cursed by The Dark Lord with no answers as to why or how. And you, you are absent from that. The odd one out._

_The only exception from this taunt of death._

She wanted to scream it. Wanted to wail it from the highest point of the school. But that was impossible. Silence was her only virtue.

He ran his tongue over his bottom lip but passed the cigarette towards her. His fingers brushed against her own and she found it hard to not shudder at the warmth of his fingers in contrast to the cold air, or the way he held his hand pressed against her fingers for three seconds longer than needed. 

He took a breath and slumped back down against the wall beside the windowsill, turning his gaze back towards the window.

After a moment he stood and pushed back his shoulders, holding his nose up in the air, like he was afraid of watching Hermione drink the smoke from _his_ cigarette. Afraid to see her do something so out of character, so reckless. 

He left with no goodbye, not that she wanted one. Not that she _needed_ one. He walked and she followed his frame, his dark body moving like a drop of black ink of a sheet of parchment.

When he was out of sight, she finished the cigarette and vanished it into thin air. She fell asleep against the window, the raindrops coating her cheeks in hundreds of tiny shadowed diamonds.

—

The next morning, Hermione woke with her face still pressed against the window. There was a prefect lingering over her, telling her that it was already nine in the morning.

From the red bubble over her head reading _old age,_ Hermione knew that the curse had not been a nightmare.

It had been real.

It remained real as she rushed to her appointment that she was more than late for. As she scurried through huddles of people with bright red flares over their heads, all seeming to merge together if the students stood close enough, she nearly passed out. She couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard she tried to avoid the words in the air. They were there. _Botched spell, drowning, choking, sepsis, dragon-pox, old age._

It was like a fresh wound sliced into skin, bleeding out no matter how much she wanted it to stop.

Hermione made it to the fourth floor with less than a minute to spare. She knew her hair was frizzy and sodden with the wet condensation from the window, and she hadn’t even had time to clean her face or change into fresh robes.

But that’s not what she was thinking when she lifted her hand to the door. It’s not what she was thinking about when the woman opened it, staring down at her with an expectant gaze.

Hermione had expected to see another Professor Trelawney type of woman, with crazy hair and hundreds of loud bracelets, but that wasn’t what she was at all.

Rather than wild curly hair, Mrs Cressida had straight raven coloured locks that stretched all the way down to her thighs, ending in one perfect line. Rather than hundreds of bangles, layers of clothing and bandanas, she was dressed in a smooth white dress that covered her pale skin. Hermione could not decipher her age, for her hand that held up her quill was wrinkled, but her face was rather flat, just the small, almost faded lines around her eyes showing any sort of ageing.

But her eyes, her eyes told Hermione she was old. One look into her slightly reddish-brown eyes and Hermione could practically feel the wisdom dripping from them, coating her in a strange feeling of dislike but intrigue at the same time.

“Miss Granger,” Her voice was soft, which Hermione found somewhat shocking. It reminded her of Molly Weasley in some way. “It’s nice to finally meet you, do come in my lovely!”

Her personality seemed rather nice. Not judgmental or prude. Hermione simply nodded and entered the room, letting her eyes rake over the surroundings. The walls were slack with hundreds of tiny little gothic mirrors, half-skull heads, flowers and an arrangement of purple and black posters. There were two small leather sofas on the edge of the room by the round window, one was slightly larger, and Mrs Cressida ushered Hermione to sit down on the latter.

Hermione shot a glance at the red bubble above the woman’s head, not once daring to breathe. She sighed when it said _killing curse,_ and tried to push it to the back of her mind so she could avoid dissecting the events that would cause this woman's death.

“So, Miss Granger,” She sat and crossed her leg, exposing several small tattoos on her calf, and Hermione didn’t doubt there were more beneath her dress. “Are you here by your own will or because you were told to come here, McGonagall scurried her way out of answering that question herself.”

“Oh—Um, you can call me Hermione,” Hermione said quickly, wanting to break all of the formalities, she was already feeling more than uncomfortable with the entire situation. “And, a bit of both, really…”

Mrs Cressida nodded and Hermione noted that there was a quill quietly scratching her words down on a tatted roll of parchment on the desk by the door.

The woman did not ask Hermione to call her by her first name, however, and Hermione instantly felt the barrier of student and...therapist, if that’s what you would call it, go up between them.

Hermione could not decide if she liked that or not. She questioned if that would make this any easier, not knowing a thing about the person she was spilling her life to. Or if it would make it harder for her to trust her, connect with her.

“Of course, naturally, these things can be relieving but also embarrassing, can’t they?” The bat-like woman waved her hand and peered into Hermione’s eyes as if she was studying her. “Sharing all of your feelings with someone you don’t even know could be considered slightly bizarre, couldn’t it?”

Hermione could not decipher if the questions were to be answered or if they were simply rhetorical. She decided it was the latter when the woman continued speaking.

“McGonagall has shared with me her concerns, as she has every student she has sent to me,” Mrs Cressida summoned a black hardback book from behind her, catching it swiftly in her hand. “I’m not here to act like your therapist, or as if I _know_ you in any way shape or form, so don’t feel as if I’m here to _pry_ or to devour secrets from you. You only should tell me what you think would be good to get off your chest, to free yourself of the chains that bring you down…”

 _Can I tell you about a curse placed upon me by Lord Voldemort moments before he died at the hands of my best friend?_

Hermione almost laughed at her own thoughts.

“I say this in the nicest way possible my lovely. But you are Hermione Granger. I already know a lot about you, where you were born, your blood status, your relationship and friendships and your brave involvement in the wizarding war,” There was a twinkle behind her words. Hermione felt her hands crossing on her lap, wishing to hear more of what this complete stranger thought of her. “But I don’t know _you._ I don’t know what you're _feeling_ in reaction to all of those things, the stress you still carry from the war, for example, or your relationships.”

She peered down through her eyelashes as she opened the book on her lap, flipping the pages with a long pointed purple fingernail.

“Right,” Hermione nodded her head. “I understand.”

“I’ve been told that you were the best student in the entire school.” She continued, finally landing on the page she was looking for. “Are there any particular reasons you feel why this is no longer the case? Stress, anxiety, depression?”

Hermione went slightly rigid. She averted her eyes and stared out of the window, watching the autumn rain fall over the bright grass.

Mrs Cressida seemed to notice her apprehension and laid a soft smile on her features.

“My lovely, if you don’t want to tell me anything, you really don’t have to. Don’t feel forced.” She said, her red lips falling into a line. “If you’d rather just express all your problems to your friends, you can.”

Hermione’s eyes found their way back to her face. The woman was staring at her with a kind expression despite her hard, sharp features. Hermione struggled to contend if she was acting for her paycheck or if she really was interested like she was perceiving.

“As I said, I’m not here as a therapist or a doctor of any kind. I’m here for you to rant to, like a friend without all the annoying parts in the middle.” Mrs Cressida continued, brushing sleek strands of black from her face.

For a moment Hermione hesitated, but then there was a knocking at the back of her chest that began to suffocate her. She was trapped. The feeling of complete isolation had slowly been budding inside of her, threatening to crack her in two.

And then there was the curse. The feeling of pure repugnance that was eating her from the inside out. Maybe she had to set it free, as best as she could.

“The war has definitely put a damper on things,” Hermione said, clearing her throat. She didn’t know why she felt slightly embarrassed. “It’s hard to focus when you're constantly reminded of all the death and destruction that was thrown around.”

Mrs Cressida nodded. The quill at the corner of the room continued to scribble.

“Understandable, returning to a place that had been the home of the battle must be more than difficult, it must remind you of the past.” She said, her voice placid. Inviting. “And may I ask why you returned? From my knowledge, attending the eighth year is not mandatory and I’m sure as Hermione Granger you were offered places for work, am I right?”

“I only came back because it had always been my dream in life to complete school.” Hermione cleared her throat again when she felt guilt glazing across her throat. “I was offered a place at the ministry in London and a place at the one in the states, but I declined for now. I didn’t want to be offered a spot simply because I’m Harry Potter’s friend."

The quill scribbling paused for a moment, the silence of the sudden stop echoing inside of Hermione’s mind. It was almost as annoying as the ticking of the moon clock in McGonagall’s office.

“I just wanted to be...normal,” Hermione confessed, feeling her heart twinge because she knew she was not normal. Not anymore. Not while the words Diem Mortis tagged along with her everywhere she went like a stuck label in the back of a shirt.

Hermione spoke so quietly she was sure her voice was lost beneath the tattoo the rain was now beating against the window, but Mrs Cressida hummed and uncrossed her legs.

“That is insightful, very. It seems as if you are trying to push away your experiences during the war so that you could continue a normal, teenage life?” The quill began to scurry again. Hermione nodded slowly. “Sometimes trying to ignore it makes things worse. Instead, sometimes if you accept it you can learn from it and move on.”

Her hands found their way to the bottom of her skirt and Hermione began to finger the thread at the hem. While thinking of how to respond to such a statement that was somewhat true, Hermione tried to suppress her sigh. She hadn’t realised her eyes were gazing at the spot of red reflecting on the crown of Mrs Cressida’s inky head.

“We can speak about this more in future sessions though, I am sure.” Mrs Cressida continued. “Today was just me trying to get to know why these things are happening.”

Hermione nodded. Her hands were sweating, she thought maybe it was because she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the crimson bubble in front of her.

“Well, Hermione, if you are happy with this, my trusty old friend—“ She pointed over her shoulder at the quill behind her back, “—Has made a few notes of things we can work on in your next session. First I will be fully talking through _which_ moments of the battle have damaged you the most, and we can find a way to push past them, then we can focus on other things, such as your studies, relationships with friends, as I’m sure the war has snagged a few of lines between a few of them, and so on.”

Ron’s face fell into her mind at the last part, but Hermione happily pushed him out and tried to not gag at the memory of his lips against her neck the night before.

This all made Hermione feel queasy. She wasn’t sure that she wanted to relive all of the moments that had tarnished her most. She had spent so long _trying_ to box them up inside of her head, now she had to unpack them.

“Right…” Hermione said, nodding even though she wasn’t completely sure. “I think that’ll be fine.”

Mrs Cressida nodded. “Perfect, is there anything else you would like to discuss today?”

Hermione shook her head, wanting to jump up and run from the red light that was staining her vision. She thought about heading to bed, but then remembered she had desperately wanted to try and find some sort of evidence to the curse that was gripping her.

“Well then, you are free to go my lovely.” Mrs Cressida stood and Hermione followed her as she walked to the door. “Do make a list of things you’d like to speak about if you think of any. I’ll see you this time next week, Hermione.”

Hermione whispered a small thank you and quickly scurried out the door, falling back against the wood the moment it closed safely behind her. Her hands clutched to her chest and she had to take three deep breaths before she could open her eyes.

She let out a little squeak. She hadn’t expected anybody to be in the small corridor with her.

It was almost comical at this point, that it was _Draco_ leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, head arched back against the stone.

He was peering at her through his nose, head turned to the side ever so slightly. Hermione gawked at him for a moment, feeling a sheer sliver of embarrassment running down her spine. An embarrassment that she had just been caught spilling her feelings to the new member of staff and an embarrassment that he had just seen her gasping for air against the door.

Yet, it was nice to see a head that had no death. As strange as that sounded.

He huffed, indicating he wanted her to move out of his way, and she let her curious mind wander as to why he was also visiting the new Hogwarts ‘non-therapist, friend-like woman’, but moved out of the way nevertheless, starting to walk down the corridor.

Draco pushed himself from the wall and brushed past her, his shoulder knocking her own and she tried to repress an annoyed hiss. She continued walking, but found her feet bound to the floor when she felt a hand snake around her wrist, pulling her to a stop.

“Granger,” Draco spoke with an annoyingly flat voice, she turned her head round to look at him. He held a curious expression, one torn between disgust and torn between humour. She braced herself to hear the term Mudblood or to be tripped to the floor. “You have cigarette ash on your shirt.”

Her mouth fell agape. All of her fear, yet excitement that he was going to spit insults at her died away like a firework that had sparkled then died, leaving everything dark, cold and haunting.

He kept his hand snaked around her wrist, too tight, too comfortable. She knew that he was insinuating that he knew she had fallen asleep at the window after smoking _his_ cigarette from the way his eyes narrowed towards her for a second.

With a puff of cruel laughter, he dropped her wrist and rolled his eyes when she snatched her limb away from him and held it against her chest. He turned on his heels and stalked into the room behind him without even knocking, leaving her alone.

She stood there frozen for a minute, eyes staring at the black wooden door as if trying to figure out if she had just imagined that entire interaction. It was more than strange, the way he was acting so indifferent and the way he was the only person who seemed to actually still be acknowledging that she still existed outside of her role in the war.

With a shake of her head, she headed for the library, silently dreading her next tutoring session with the ex-death eater, knowing it was going to be nothing but torture for both of them.

—

There was a spot in the library Hermione had always favoured, before and after the war.

It was at the very back of the large book-filled room, in a separate little section that was roundly shaped and was concealed by a half-wall. There was a tiny little window on the edge of the curve that overlooked the edge of the forest and Hagrid's house, in which the bushes around it were now overgrown.

She had begun to read and study here in her third-year after she continuously lost focus when Pansy would laugh into Draco's neck, or when Theo and Blaise would throw wrappers at her as she passed. Or even when Luna would come and shuffle around, or when Padma and Lavender would giggle into each other’s shoulders when she tried to read. It was more comfortable in this little section, secluded, alone. Safe.

That was exactly how Hermione was at that moment, sitting in the round nook which made her feel like she was sitting in a pepper pot, surrounded by several books all the size of mountains.

She had been reading through _‘A History Of Magical Enchantments’_ for the past half an hour, her finger on the page to guide her eyes. It was the third book she was searching through, so far finding nothing that could answer why she had woken up on her birthday with the ability to be able to see everybody's deaths, par Draco Malfoy’s and her own.

Diem Mortis. It was a rather vague saying, not offering much scope to look through. She hadn’t even seen the phrase once whilst reading through the books. Deep down, she knew it wouldn’t be in any of the books she was studying. No longer being allowed access to the restricted section any cost was weighing on her because she knew there would be more hope within the books of unruly magic than the ones she had access to.

But she still needed some form of hope. It was also a way to keep busy, an excuse to shut herself away from the crimson sea that constantly followed her every move. Here she was alone with nothing but her mind, it had been a while since she had been alone with nothing but the prospect of _studying_ on her mind.

When Hermione turned the page and saw that it was yet another chapter on the use of underage magic, she pursed her lips together and threw the book onto the table, the pages exhaling little puffs of dust as the pages fell shut.

She was so tired and so angry, angry at everything including _herself_ for not being able to work this out.

As Hermione reached for the next book in the pile, she spotted Neville poking his head into the nook, a shy smile on his face. The red glare reading _old age_ above his head entered along with him, plastering red over the usually grey stone.

“I thought I’d find you here!” He said, inviting himself into her nook. He flopped onto the chair on the other side of the small round table she was situated at. “I just need your help with something.”

Fighting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose, Hermione pressed a placid smile onto her face and nodded.

“Sure, Neville, what is it?” She ushered the books away from him, hoping he wouldn’t question what she was researching.

“Oh,” He looked down at the scattered books around her, eyes frowning. “If your busy, it’s fine, I could ask Ron or maybe Kat—“

“Not busy!” Hermione spoke too quickly and covered it with a small laugh. “Just researching some old curses for defence against the dark arts, I want to be _super_ prepared for the essay next week.”

There was no essay, but Neville no longer took defence against the dark arts and was none the wiser. He shrugged and pulled out his parchment and quill, laying it onto the table.

“I feel a little dumb asking for help because I’m meant to be the top of the class at Herbology at the moment, but I really can’t get my head around this one plant.” He sighed, shaking brown hair into his eyes. “And I know you’re the smartest person I know so…”

The inside of her cheek began to hurt and she suddenly realised she had been biting it. She was not the smartest person anymore. It pained her that she had to sit here and pretend because she was too ashamed to admit the war had blasted a hole in her head.

“Sprout wants us to grow some Alihotsy, but it’s proving most tricky…” A little pout fell over his face. “I’m not sure if you’d have any idea? I feel like I need to get to _know_ the plant's history before I can figure out how to actually make it grow. I heard some rumours in my class that you used to grow it for fun with Ron.”

Hermione pursed her lips. He was correct and it stung her insides.

“The leaves of the plant can induce hysteria and uncontrollable laughter, not to mention that small chopped Alihotsy leaves are used as an ingredient for the Laughing Potion,” Hermione said without thinking about it. “The leaves' mirth-inducing properties can be damaged by stirring the potion too vigorously following its addition to the mixture, I _think_. But you’re not doing potions, so I don’t think that really matters…”

Then her mind suddenly felt slightly fuzzy and blank. She narrowed her eyes, desperately trying to recall how she had grown the plant many times before to drop into Ron’s tea to make him laugh, but she couldn’t think straight. Confusion ran through her mind and her fingers were absentmindedly playing with the necklace around her neck, and she hadn’t realised it had turned a burning silvery grey.

“Yes, of course, I think I remember Snape mentioning it briefly in one of the first few years, but I don’t exactly have a knack for potions.” Neville shrugged but began to write with his quill anyway. “Do you remember if they should face the sun or not? I’m assuming by the shape and density on the leaf they should be, but I thought I’d double-check.”

Hermione wanted to ask why he had asked her and not Ron, seeing as Neville was aware they _both_ used to grow it for fun, but she was too occupied racking her brain for the information she _swore_ she knew. When she closed her eyes for a brief second to help her focus, her vision swarmed with a searing red, the same colour above Neville’s head.

“I think they have to face the sun during the first half of their growth and then simmer in the dark so they don’t grow too big,” Hermione said, even though she wasn’t completely sure. “It’s hard to remember, it’s been a while.”

“A while since you grew the plants or a while since you grew them _with_ Ron?” Neville asked as he wrote, he seemed to quickly realise he shouldn’t have asked and shot Hermione a tentative smile. “Sorry, it’s just weird to not see you two talking.”

“It’s weird to not be talking, but it’s for the best.” Hermione brushed a few loose hairs from her face, she felt her cheeks burning red and let her eyes fall over the half, staring out over the library.

Neville was talking, but she was hardly listening, she could only catch the “sorry” “not my business” “lonely” that came from his mouth, because her eyes were reading all the death in the room without her realising it. 

It wasn’t intentional, but it was like a drug. Drawing her in, trapping her.

Death was a drug and she was now the addict. 

She watched Madam Pince strut through the clearing, balancing books in her wrinkled hands like a waitress dancing their plates. Hermione’s heart sunk a little when she read the word _mumblemumps_ lingering over her grey head.

Madam Pince was levitating the books back into their spaces as Neville rambled on, seemingly not having noticed that Hermione was no longer listening, but instead letting her eyes fall over a white head that was making their way through the library and towards the librarian.

Hermione’s heart skipped a woeful beat at the sight of a spot of emptiness in the sea of death, but she wasn’t thankful for it. She watched carefully as Draco spoke to Pince with furrowed eyebrows, his hands moving animatedly as he spoke. She waved her hand like she was dismissing him, and he shot a glance at the cladding around the restricted section and stormed away, grasping Blaise’s arm at the exit and dragging him out of sight with him.

All attempts at trying to recall how to grow an Alihotsy had been replaced by the silent thoughts and questions about why Draco was _empty._ Why he bore no _death._

“Are you okay, Hermione?” Neville asked after a moment of silence and Hermione jumped, knocking a book from the table. “You’ve gone very pale.”

“Oh! Sorry, just got distracted…” Hermione waved her hand and shook her head, trying to shake away the colour of red from her cheeks.

Neville continued to write on his parchment. It seemed as though he had drawn a diagram of the plant, very neatly and was labelling it.

“That part should be the ferocious stem.” Hermione said, pointing to the part he had labelled _open stem_.

“Oh? Thank you, Hermione, I thought it looked a little weird.” He scratched it out and replaced it with what Hermione had said.

It was silent. Nothing but the hushed sounds of the voices outside of the little pepper pot nook and the scratch of Neville’s quill lingered in the air.

“Neville?” Hermione asked, eyes falling back out at the river of crimson. She hadn’t noticed she was somewhat hoping to see the empty white head to calm her. “Have you noticed anything weird with Drac—any of the Slytherin’s this year?”

Neville pursed his lips as he continued to add to the diagram. Hermione thought he had labelled the leaves backwards but was too distracted to correct him.

“Well, at first I was nervous about them returning, seeing as it was many of their parents who actually _helped_ destroy the school…” Neville said, voice small like he was worried that somebody would hear. “But they’re just keeping themselves to themselves, aren’t they? Like, Theo Nott hasn’t muttered a bad word to me in Herbology since we returned...even made jokes with me about the fact I was the _hero_ by killing the snake…”

He paused and so did his quill.

“I guess that they don’t want to make things worse for themselves. Many of them faced trails, didn’t they? I guess people like Draco—“ Neville pulled a face as he said his name. “–Is keeping his head down so he doesn’t end up in Azkaban with his dad.”

Hermione clicked her tongue.

Calling her a Mudblood or tripping her in the halls wouldn't land him in Azkaban, but he still wasn’t doing it.

“Plus, Pansy is seeming to actually get _along_ with some of us this year,” Neville continued. “She let me borrow a quill in Muggle Studies and I saw her and Luna... _cuddling_ at your party.”

Sadness ran through Neville’s face. Hermione didn’t know why. Friends cuddle. I guess it was more-so weird that someone like _Luna_ would ever be friends with someone like _Pansy._

“I guess you’re right,” Hermione said, and as she finished her sentence she spotted Draco walking back into the library, alone this time, with his eyes on the floor.

He approached the librarian again and whispered beneath his breath, her eyes shot around and she sighed. Hermione watched her pass him a key and he silently slivered into the restricted section and out of sight like a ghost passing through a wall of stone.

How peculiar.

Hermione gulped. “I guess he- _they_ just want to fit in, maybe they actually want to be something other than death-eaters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the lack of update, I was taking a break from social media.


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